Pomp and Circumstances I forgot to anticipate

I just didn't know that it was going to be such a big deal. It's eighth grade, for God's sake, not high school.

The story goes like this:

A week ago my mother-in-law informed me that her grandson's graduation ceremony would be today. Her grandson. My son. I told her I didn't think so. It was a "step up" something or other, when the kids prepare to go from middle school to high school. Step up, not graduation.

No, she said. I called the school. It's graduation. 9:30 at the high school.

Good enough. Middle school graduation. No big deal.

David couldn't make it to the "graduation," but Wolfgang said he didn't care. It's not a big deal, he said.

Grandma asked me what she should wear. I told her that if I wasn't going to work immediately afterward, I'd be wearing shorts and a t-shirt. It's casual - not a big deal.

But I forgot that this is the trophy generation, and EVERYTHING is a big deal.

We arrived at the high school to find custodians directing lines of traffic of parents and grandparents, dressed up and carrying arms full of flowers for their grads.

Whoops.

The 90 minute ceremony was actually quite nice, and quite full - speeches, awards, music, diplomas. Add caps and gowns and you'd have the exact same ceremony that's going to take place on the exact same stage tomorrow night when the seniors graduate high school.

Don't get me wrong. The whole thing was all very nice, and I'm proud of my kid and his friends and all they've accomplished. I'm only grateful that there wasn't a standing ovation at the end of it all. That would have been more than I could handle.

They like me, they really like me!

I was interviewed yesterday by a freelance writer for Trinity's alumni magazine, The Reporter. The quarterly publication is just like every other alumni magazine out there - it focuses on two different types of alums -

1) rich types who give lots of money to the school because they've got some messed up nostalgia about the college years

2) mega-accomplished types who build HIV clinics in Africa when they're not climbing Mount Everest or finding a cure for cancer.

Now clearly, I am not rich, obsessed with Trinity or curing cancer. So why would they want to talk to someone like me?

Because in celebration of 40 years of coeducation at Trinity, they wanted to write an article focusing on "real" women, women who face the daily stresses of work and family - not killer viruses and high altitude.

Alright, that's worth something. I might not be important, but "real" isn't a bad alternative. An article that celebrates the rest of us is a noble idea, right?

And so we spent an hour and a half together, this freelancer and I. In that time, I'm quite sure I confused her with my philosophies on parenting (benign neglect is easily misunderstood) and feminism (remember my rally against the whole 'time for yourself' notion?).

Still, confused or not, she did a good job of trying to make me feel special, even arguing with my long-held notion that I'm essentially unremarkable, in the most literal sense of the word. By the end, I even started to feel just a little bit ... important.

Like I said, she did a good job. And I almost bought it.

But, apparently, my remarkable real life experience is only worth 300 words.

I should just send her this blog.

"Doing too much"

I crashed at work today. Got dizzy, queasy and couldn't focus. Dry mouth, pale, the whole thing. There's been some stupid stomach bug going around and I think it managed to sneak up on me in a moment of low resistance.

So, I came home (not really remembering the drive too well) and crashed on the couch. The kids and David eventually trickled in (David, mercifully, with pizza - I don't know how I was going to manage tonight's planned chicken dinner. Queasiness and raw chicken just don't mix).

As evening approaches, I feel slightly more lucid, though my stomach is swirling with flat Coke and my brain is swirling with today's proclamation from the older generation: "Carolyn, you've been doing too much lately."

The thing with being a working mom is that you have to do a lot. The thing with being a mom is that you have to do a lot. The thing with being a human being who wants to stay sane is that you have to do a lot.

And so I do it.

It's only a problem when some nasty virus finds its way around my defenses. Then the work, the family, the kids, the house, the running, the coaching - the living - are suddenly quantifiable. And, inevitable, the quantity is "too much."

I don't have it in me to accept the notion that my life makes me sick. Were that the case, I'd have to either start medicating or just close up shop altogether.

It's a stomach bug, and I hope it doesn't last a lot longer. I've got too much to do.

Drunk posting

I took a facebook-imposed furlough and ignored my blog for a month. I made friends and uploaded photos and commented on status reports. For a while, I thought that facebook would be the death of this blog. Why would I take the time to compose a 1000+ character blog when I could distill everything in my brain down to a couple measly lines?

Those measly lines were all I needed to convey my general attitude about life:

Carolyn Wallach is bribing the kids to get what she wants. Parenting 101.
Carolyn Wallach is The Road. Wow.
Carolyn Wallach thinks her toxic assets might be shovel-ready.

Now, you see, I thought that last one was brilliant - a witty commentary on the overuse of certain phrases in the media. Bleh. No one had anything to say. No one wanted to comment on my toxic assets or even seemed to know what "shovel-ready" meant.

And so, slowly but surely, as my facebook friends failed to give me the stroking necessary to keep this delicate ego aloft, I have started to feel that I need more than short third-person status reports to keep me sane. I can't sort out or unravel what's in my head in one sentence.

There's so much I want to write. Spring is here and, in classic Carolyn fashion, I'm dropping balls left and right.

I'd like to tell you about it - about the social engagements and niceties that I've totally fucked up, but my glass, the same one that brought me back to this blog, is empty.

Damn you, red wine. And thank you.

Boys are gross

As I write this, the male members of this family are involved in an in depth conversation about their different bathroom techniques. Folding toilet paper, positioning, etc. This "poop conversation," as they have deemed it, has been going on for at least 10 minutes.

Fortunately, they waited until we had actually finished consuming our food before diving into the food's eventual condition. I had to leave.

They sit there at the dinner table, the boys enraptured, worrying only that their father (or mother) might sometime put an end to the discussion.

Oh wait, now the conversation has moved on to "bear poo" and the latest episode of Man vs. Wild.

I am surrounded by boys and men and boys wanting to be men and men wanting to be boys.

No wonder I get such severe PMS. It's my female hormones trying to assert themselves in this testosterone filled world.

When he's not memorizing Pi,

this is how Wolfgang spends his time...

Spring Training

At our house, this is how we know that spring is coming:



Note the handles reinforced with black electrical tape to make the bats stronger and more light saber-like.